


Luck Under the Blade

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Autopsy, Cancer, Hospitals, M/M, literally cancer, middle aged dave, references to doctors from hospital shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave's been diagnosed with cancer and takes a chance with an operation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luck Under the Blade

The white-washed walls and pale green blankets only made Dave look more sickly. You sit in the corner of the room, legs crossed at the knee and armsfolded tightly across your chest. You utterly abhorred this place, that was no secret. The noisome people and machines, the way any color at all stood out like a sore thumb, the food so lacking in any flavor that you had tasted cardboard with more substance- everything about this place grated on your nerves but it was the part you didn’t complain about to anyone that was the worst. It was the scent of death, of sickness, and disinfectant. The humans use it to clean everything; the walls, the floor, even the handles. The combination of all three of those made your skin crawl.

It was a human hospital, they couldn’t help it if they only cleaned according to their own senses, and to their idea of disinfected, to what they could smell as clean. A troll hospital was different, very different. All in all, it was these three scents together that made you dislike the hospital in general. This room in particular, though, this room was the worst- any room in a hospital that also held Dave was the worst. You could smell death in this room, lingering on the chairs, on the headboard of the bed, even on the sheets themselves where Dave lay.

The scent clung to Dave himself.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said.

Jerking out of your thoughts, you really looked at him this time and actually see him. He was breathing evenly and the shades on his face kept you from telling if he had opened his eyes or not. “I thought you were sleepin’.”

He snorted. “Like that has stopped you before.” You smiled at the words. “I was asleep but I could feel someone here,” his senses were so honed, even now, or should you say ingrained? “I thought it was you but wasn’t sure since you were so damn quiet.”

Chuckling, you unfold yourself and stand. You walk over to his bedside slowly, watching him without a word.

“Stop looking like that,” he said with a frown. He turned his hand over so it was palm up. A silent request to you. You slide your hand around his and squeezed gently. “I’m the one sick so I get to look like death warmed over, not you.”

“Haha,” you mock, “You don’t even know what death looks like on a troll.”

He does that tip of the head that means he is rolling his eyes. His fingers interlace with yours and he runs his thumb over your knuckles. “Not all that excited to either,” he remarks in reply. The slight frown hasn’t gone away. “What has gotten you so quiet today though? Have you finally run out of things to bitch about? Did hell freeze over while I was sleeping?”

You squeezed his hand tightly, suddenly unable to speak. Where are your words? Your voice? You stare at him, his thin cheeks, the pallor to his skin, the way you can clearly see his veins through his arm. His near white hair was thinning badly now, you wonder if he’ll take up his brother’s signature ballcap. You wonder if there will be time for that.

“Babe,” he speaks softly, pushing himself up with one arm, “Babe, come on now, what did we say?”

“W-what?”

“No tears,” His grip on your hands is painful now. “No tears until we beat this thing.” You blink rapidly, suddenly realizing you _were_ about to cry. It’s hard not to, watching him in this room that smells like death. It’s hard not to cry.

“Right. Sorry.” You rub the back of your free hand across your eyes and force a smile.

“Better. Now give me a kiss.”

“So bossy today,” you murmur, but lean down to kiss his chapped lips. “What, have we switched roles now?” He smirks into the kiss.

“I like the sound of that. Give me your scarf.”

“Ha, wait, what?”

“Scarf me, I know you’re always wanting to.” He lifts his chin, presenting his neck to you.

With a laugh, you let go of his hand and tug off your scarf from your neck. You wrap the soft dark red-brown colored cloth around and tuck it together under his chin. He slips his dark glasses off and holds them out. “Switch.”

You obey again, taking off yours and putting his on. Your whole world, plus the room around him, darkens and he laughs. “Do you really even need these fucking things?”

You tip your chin down, letting his glasses slide down his nose and looking over the top rim of them. His bright red eyes shine at you and the way the scarf looks against the sharp lines of his thin jaw make you hungry for more of him. “They help me with my long distance.”

“Uh huh, right.” He leans back, “Well now that I’m you, w-why don’t you go get me a damn fish’ta eat? I’m starwed and this fuckin’ disease trap couldn’t prep me a coddamn fish if it w-was to sawe my life!” He wrinkles his nose, perfecting his image of you to go along with the imitation.

You climb onto the bed, leaning on one hand to brace yourself. “Go get your own fish to cook. I’m not going out of my way to make you something only to have you bitch over one thing wrong with it.”

He laughs, “Is that supposed to be me?” Then he continues with his mimicry, “C’mon Dawey, make me somethin’ to eat! W-weh!”

“Oh. My. God. I have not _w-weh’d_ in years!”

“You weh’d last month.” He’s grinning now, and you can see the amusement crinkling around his eyes along with the rest of his wrinkles of age.

“I did not!” You smack his leg and say in his voice, “Go make the fish yourself, I have film to edit!”

“W-weh!” he does the most adorable pout you have ever seen on a grown man. “Dawey make me some food!”

“Eribabe,” you reply in your best Texan drawl, “I’m the sick one and all you want to do is cinderella me around the house? Shall I make your dress for the ball and pick the dried peas from the fireplace ashes too?”

“You alw-ways cheat, you bastard,” he snaps the words in a way that makes breathing suddenly very difficult for you, “It’s not like I got any control ower your stupid human body!” he has your whine down to an art. Has he been practicing? “Stop bein’ stupid and sleep, man! W-we both fuckin’ know-w you stay up w-way too late as it is!”

You remember this conversation, from way back before either of you knew _why,_ when he was just tired all the time and you didn’t understand why. You’re a scientist- and a doctor, of sorts- you should have taken him to a doctor then and not let him talk you out of it. You could have caught this early. You could have prevented this slow descent into--

“Eridan, stop it.” His voice is hoarse. You can see his eyes as he blinks quickly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I mean it. Stop thinking about that. You did everything right.”

How can this pathetic human know you so well? You crawl up the bed, straddling his legs and you hold his face in your hands. To stop yourself from crying, to stop him from crying, you kiss and kiss him.

You’re just getting into the swing of things when there’s a knock at the door. The oncologist, Doctor Wilson, stands there, politely looking away. “We have some news for you, Mr. Strider.”

Without a word, you slide off his shades. Dave shoots you a quick thankful look as he swaps out glasses. You shove your own glasses back into place as you hop off the bed, standing beside it instead. You feel better, a little more hopeful and more like yourself, even though your neck is cold. Dave turns his hand over silently again and you take it. It pleases you to no end that he’s still wearing your scarf.

You smile to the doctor, who has a large envelope with him, the kind you recognize to hold scans. Definitely Dave’s scans, you have no doubt. The man’s friendly smile faltered as he opened the envelope, looking down to do so. Dave’s hand tightens on yours.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any very good news.” He pulls over a machine that is essentially a light board on wheels. Putting the scans on it, he begins to point and speak. You know some of this will -is- going over Dave’s head, but you understand is perfectly.

The tumor growing along Dave’s spine is only getting worse, getting larger. The more it grows, the more he is in danger of losing feeling in his legs, as well as bowel and kidney control. As the doctor informs you, your tight grip on Dave’s hand only grow’s tighter. The chemo treatments he’s been taking so far have prevented a lot of the spreading, but with the onset of Dave’s worsening headaches, they- Wilson and the neurologist he was consulting with- were thinking it might have spread to his brain.

They wanted to give him an MRI to check it and the rest of his body. “Ultimately,” Wilson explained, “You two need to make a decision today.”

“And the options?” You are surprised you can still speak, but then you can feel how you’ve slipped into the mindset of _work_ not _personal_. If you can pretend this is one of your cadavers you can almost stand the conversation.

“One; we can do the scan, continue the chemo for now at a higher dosage until we see what we get and decide afterwards. That’s definitely the safest bet, but you’ll be coming in more often and will definitely be seeing some negative effects from the dose.” He gave a little sigh before continuing, “Or two. The tumor at the size it is now is small enough to operate on. We can go in and cut it out and then deal with whatever we have left in your body- be it in your brain or anywhere else.” Wilson takes a breath to continue when Dave jumps in.

“That one.”

“Er. I’m sorry, what?” The doctor blinks in mild surprise.

“Cut out the big one, deal with the rest after.” Dave glances to you, “Knives have always been good to me.” You’d like to point to the scars on his body that say otherwise but he’s still talking, “Can you do it soon? Just cut it out of me. And put it in a jar- I want to see the fucker that thinks it can paralyze me.”

That makes you laugh and even Wilson flashes an amused smile. “All right, I’ll schedule you as soon as possible. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to keep the tumor, but we can definitely put it in a jar and show you afterwards.” He’s turning off the light box and pulling the scans down. “I’ll have you know that we have one of the best neurosurgeons here. You’ll be in good hands with Dr. Shepard.” Dave nods.

Wilson puts the scans into the envelope and asks then, “Is there anything else that you’d like me to take care of?”

You shake your head, but after a moment of silence, Dave says, “If I die-”

“Dave,” you begin but he cuts you off with a squeeze of your hand and a quick look.

“If I die, I want an autopsy.” You suck in a sharp breath, oh _no_ he did not. “It’s got to go on record that the only thing to kill Dave Strider is his own mutant genes.”

The doctor smiles, shaking his head ruefully, “All right. I’ll make sure that’s taken care of for you.” He nods and then steps out, sliding the door shut behind himself.

You turn to Dave, “What do you think you’re doing? Deciding that on your own, Dave this surgery will be-”

“Dangerous? I know.”

At a loss for words, and in general overwhelmed with the desire to be as assured as he seems- but you know he really isn’t- and to finally lose your cool, you just stare at him in silence. “The autopsy-”

“It won’t come up. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re willing to go under the knife just like that? It’s a tumor along your spine!” You turn to face him, leaning towards him and clutch his hand in both of yours. “And you have a horrible track record with blades!”

“With swords, not blades. I’ll be fine. I have no doubt. It’s hardly even a gamble!” He reaches his hand up and cups your cheek, “I’m just covering my bases, Eribabe, that’s all.”

You look at your human in disbelief. Insanity. This is all insanity.

 

* * *

Five days later, on June 22th, after all the talks with Wilson and Shepard about technique and percentages and the healing aftermath, you stand alone in the hospital hallway, watching them wheel away your Dave into the restricted area. Your hand and lips are still warm from his touch. Your mind is full of how many ways this surgery could go wrong- even with the suggested 55% chance of survival. Your heart is aching with the thought that the last thing you’ll see of your Dave alive is the back of his chemo-induced balding head and his hand along the edge of the bed railing.

And all you can smell around you is the scent of death.

You are so numb you don’t even have to tell yourself not to cry because all you can do is breathe and walk slowly to the waiting room. You sink into a chair and fold your arms tightly around your stomach.

Six to eight hours.

In six to eight hours, you’ll be able to know for sure if Dave’s luck was enough to survive this time under the blade with his life.

 

* * *

The latex glove snaps as you pull it down on your wrist. You slide on the blue medical top and spend a moment in quiet thought as you tie the knot behind your head. You pick up the plastic shielding for your face and put it in place. With everything set on your person, you step up to the cold table. You reach up and pull at the mike that’s hanging from the ceiling.

You look down at the still body before you, your own voice distant to your ears and the words you’re repeating memorized. No, not just memorized. Burned into your brain from grief.

“Date: June 23rd 2045. Subject 12B4112. Gender: male. Race: Caucasian. Aged 50 years and born December 3rd, 1995.” You pause, your eyes staring down at the calm expression of the dead. “Documented time of death is yesterday, June 22nd at 14:23 PM by Doctor Shepard.”

You pause again and grip the edge of the table, leaning against it, “Subject’s name is Dave Strider. And might I say, off the record, he is the most pathetic asshole to ever exist in the entirety of humanity.” Your voice lowers, shaking with emotion as tears well up in your eyes, “Demanding in his goddamn will that I’m the one to do this like it’s some sort of closure for me. If he were alive now I would strangle him for doing this to me.”

Sniffling softly, you reach up to wipe at your eyes, pushing your glasses aside to do so. “I will never forgive that stupid bastard.” You blink away the tears and with a shaking hand reach for the cloth that covers his body. He wouldn’t have ended up on your autopsy table if he hadn’t gambled his life away underneath a knife. 


End file.
